


Briefs

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28723920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Irritated afterglow.
Relationships: Malcolm Reed/Charles "Trip" Tucker III
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31





	Briefs

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There’s a brief moment where Trip hikes up on his elbows too fast, and the world swims before him—his own quarters swirling in a sea of grey and black. He’s strong, came aboard well-built and still works out regularly to maintain it, but he’s met his match in Malcolm, and on the nights where they still have energy left, they more than run each other ragged. Trip flops back onto the pillow until he can breathe again. The cloying heat’s still ebbing out of him, leaving his feverish skin clammy and cold, worse where Malcolm’s burning body is pressing against him. Malcolm’s always _too hot._ In both ways. Trip waits for the high of the orgasm to die away completely before he sits up again.

He might’ve hit his head once or twice against the headboard, but given how many times he’s driven Malcolm into it, it’s only fair. And maybe tonight wasn’t the best night for ridiculous, wild sex, fiercer than a Klingon cage match, because they’ve both been on their feet all evening in the wake of a Suliban raid. But maybe it was that rush of endorphins that drove him to all but drag Malcolm back with him. And throw Malcolm onto the bed. And go down on him like Porthos on cheese. 

Trip snorts to himself at the silly imagery, which is a good sign his head’s back to working order. He pushes up and rolls to the side, searching the floor for bright neon amidst the navy blue. A disheveled uniform is within arm’s reach, but given that both of theirs contain red piping, he can’t tell whose it is. Not in the semi-darkness, anyway. The lights are off, and the viewport of the stars streaking by is only just enough to see the sweat on Malcolm’s brow. Trip looks back to check, “Hey, you got my underwear, there?”

Malcolm gives him _that look_ like he’s a complete cretin. Compared to how hoity-toity Malcolm can act, maybe he is. In this case, he’s perfectly justified, and he rolls his eyes and means, “On your side of the bed.”

“Ah.” Malcolm glances over but obviously isn’t trying very hard to help—he doesn’t get up. Which is kind of fine, because Trip does love seeing his incredibly handsome lover sprawled out in his bed. 

He spots a hint of bright blue under the rumpled blanket at the back of the bed, and he moves to snatch it up. He’s barely put one foot through the loose boxers before Malcolm’s slapping his hip and scolding, “Those are mine!” 

It’s Trip’s turn to give Malcolm _a look_. He dryly reminds his partner, “Malcolm, they’re the exact same.” Starfleet standard-issue. Not a single stitch of difference.

But Malcolm wrinkles his nose with obvious disgust and insists, “Of course they are! How can you not tell?”

Maybe because it’s already halfway through night shift and they both have to report to the bridge in the morning. They already wasted half of what little time they had for sleep, which was still worth it, but an argument’s not. Trip resumes pulling it up his leg and shoving his foot in the other side. “Malcolm, I don’t even care.”

“Well _I_ do!” He even rolls over to grab the crotch of the underwear and hold it back from sliding up to Trip’s crotch. Under normal circumstances, having Malcolm’s hand that close to his dick would end the argument for Trip, because he’d veer off in a whole other direction. But he’s already spent and satisfied and couldn’t handle even one more round. Neither could Malcolm—it’s telling enough that he stayed in bed and settled for a rag in Trip’s nightstand rather than demanding they both shower like usual. Malcolm’s hand still hastily retreats when he realizes just how close he is to Trip’s limp cock, but the damage is done. Trip knows that if he pulls up the underwear any further, he’ll wake up alone.

Honestly, that’d probably be easier. They wouldn’t have to part so conspicuously in the morning. But Trip likes a good cuddle almost as much as he loves a good fuck, and it’d be a shame not to have Malcolm in his arms when he wakes up. He’s in the habit of trying to chase a few extra minutes with his arms around Malcolm’s waist and Malcolm’s back glued to his chest, their legs all mixed up beneath the sheets. Usually, they make sure they’re both clothed for that, because otherwise they’re liable to fall into a second round and both wind up late for duty. 

Trip _tried_ to honour that. But of course Malcolm had to be impossible about it. Relenting, he rolls the underwear off and tosses it at Malcolm’s flushed chest. Malcolm winces when he’s hit and hurriedly wipes it away, even though it’s apparently his own pair. “Fine,” Trip grumbles. “I’ll stay naked.”

Malcolm’s already trying to protest that as Trip snuggles down and rolls into him. A good shove, and Malcolm’s on his side, the small spoon to Trip’s big ladle. Malcolm makes an indignant squawk as Trip’s flaccid shaft nestles up against his firm backside, but Trip doesn’t relent. He presses an annoyed kiss to Malcolm’s shoulder.

Malcolm fusses for a few seconds more, fidgets under the blankets to redress himself while still trapped in Trip’s grip, and then begrudgingly rolls over to return the love.


End file.
